


Amoureux

by lesbanese (vouloir)



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vouloir/pseuds/lesbanese
Summary: What will Eve do when the conductor of her desires is an enemy?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Hélène/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing this with original characters and realized it could make for an interesting Killing Eve au. It's essentially a lovers to enemies, enemies to lovers plot and I haven't figured out where the story will go yet, making it up as I go along. Longer chapters are on the way, thank you for reading!!!

Eve quickly descends the nearest staircase leading away from the upper balcony, heading backstage, her Manolo heels smacking the underside of a security guard’s jaw.

The belted high notes of opera muting all cries as the guard lands onto marbled flooring, the other thrown into a nearby set.

The dress she wore was sleeveless, thigh high slit giving her a fuller range of movement, wrapped around her thigh nestled beneath a garter is a sniper bullet. Its weight heavy but her intentions for it are heavier, much needed. She makes her way up a smaller staircase leading to a faux balcony, abandoned by the current opera season, then attaches the scope and loads the bullet in. Elena and Kenny had scoured the area in advance, setting her equipment up and she hears them arguing over who took the last fudge square over the earpiece. Clearing her throat granted a quick apology and Kenny’s voice cracks through, “Eve, how’s everything looking?”

She peers through the rifle’s scope, lining it up on her long awaited target. Elena had placed an oval mirror against the column above the balustrade giving her a side view. She watches the target now as they laugh among the people, unaware of the strike about to be placed on their life.

A pair of arms wrap around her waist, tight yet the familiarity makes her heart pang.

“Eve,” and she knows that Russian lilt anywhere, “There are much better ways to achieve revenge,” Villanelle whispers.

Eve doesn’t falter, her eyes continue to focus on the target, she refuses to allow the woman to affect her.

“I see MI6 is treating you well,” Villanelle continues, one of her arms leaves Eve’s waist, “I taught you everything you know, it’s only fair that they do.”

There’s her trademark impudence that makes Eve’s heart pang again. 

When she had first joined MI6, Villanelle was assigned as her combat trainer, years of experience shining through by grace and a need for theatrics. Their sessions grew more intimate, Eve caught in a passionate snare, the ghost of every kiss still lingers. It only made Villanelle’s betrayal all the more stricken, leaving Eve vindictive.

She keeps her focus through the scope, feels a hand trail the inside of her thigh, it moves higher.

“I miss you, Eve, I wish I could tell you why I did-“ Villanelle stops mid sentence as her fingers rise higher until finally they brush against a wetness.

Eve lets out a shaky breath, nearly angry at herself with how the woman manages to bring out her desire no matter the anger towards her she carries.

Villanelle brings her fingers out into the dim light in front of them, they’re glistening.

“I still remember how you taste,” Villanelle coos into her ear, the grip around her waist tightens as a shiver runs through Eve at the admission.

“Why are you here Oksana?” Eve finally speaks, she knows how much the woman despises that name.

Her target is now on the move but a sudden realization dawns upon her, as Villanelle moves closer behind her, reflecting off the mirror is the crest of the target on her lapel.

“You’re here to stop me.”

She tries to shoot the rifle but Villanelle is quick to stop her, the bullet hits the balcony railing instead. The entire auditorium fills with screaming and mobs of footsteps. She attempts to fight off Villanelle but falls off the rail, hitting the marbled flooring hard.

Elena and Kenny’s voice filter through the comm, “Eve?! Eve?! What’s happening? 

Tell us you’re alright!”

She sees Villanelle looking back at her, fingers lacing with another woman’s as they escape through the crowd before her haze goes dark.


	2. this is what you came for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen season 3 yet, there are definite spoilers in this chapter that I reference, it also gets a lot more explicit. I apologize in advance because formatting is the bane of my existence, and hopefully it doesn't look too wonky on any screen. If anyone has suggestions please let me know! Thank you for your patience and reading this!

Villanelle was expecting MI6 to thwart their plans but she wasn’t expecting to see Eve there. She recognized her from afar by her noire curly hair, the tightness of her muscles, and how she gracefully fends off her enemies. The guilt of leaving stabs her gut ritually, it had been five years since they last saw one another. Villanelle wonders if Eve yearns over meeting again.

She quickly mutes those thoughts away as she finds herself meeting Hélène in the armory room as she likes to call it, various medieval weaponry strung across the entire room, suits of armor she likes to stick her tongue out at, and of course the tiny chair. She sees her image reflected upon the armor, adjusts the blazer of her form fitting Tom Ford suit at half the price thanks to an impassioned entanglement with the sales associate, opted to wear nothing underneath it, and finally paired it off with Celine boots. Villanelle does an extra double take before heading towards the tiny chair. “Don’t you even think about it,” Hélène saunters over with a bottle of red wine and two glasses in hand, her stilettos echoing with every step, “have a seat at the table.” Villanelle rolls her eyes as she makes her way over to sit across Hélène. She pours them both a glass of Château Margaux and Villanelle watches the way her fingers grasp the bottle much as it was around her own neck in appetency. She shifts forward in her chair in a daze.

“You have been exceptionally naughty, Villanelle,” Hélène chides. She leans back against her chair, wood creaking, tries to pick up her wine glass but Villanelle is quick to stop her. She’s met with a smirk and retracts her hand.

“Have I? Tell me more”, Villanelle asks innocently, she takes the glass 

and drinks a large gulp. It soothes the dryness in her throat.

“You murdered Rhian,” Hélène deadpans.

“She was soooo boring and didn’t like my outfit,” Villanelle whines. She pouts and sinks further down into her chair.

“I didn’t like it either, it was an eyesore,” Hélène takes a sip out of her glass, 

its rim coated in rouge.

Villanelle scoffs at that, clearly offended. She wants the world to know that subtlety was not a word to associate her with. Hélène shows no remorse in her tone, another pawn ended at the expense of her not so vigilant gaze. The Twelve could easily replace her but deep down she knew they were nothing without Villanelle’s expertise, having played both sides.

“They think she’s missing. Imagine when they find out you murdered her,” Hélène continues, her words bordering on a threat. She finally takes a better look at the woman before her, Villanelle remains unfazed by it all. She stands up just to lean close towards Hélène, her hands gripping on each arm of the chair she sits in.

“Imagine when they find out I fuck you on the regular,” Villanelle breathes out, her voice aches.

Before Hélène can respond, a loud knock diffuses all the tension and Paul Bradwell’s obnoxious voice filters through the door. “Hello???? Hélène, might I have a word with you?”

“Quickly,” Hélène instructs, “underneath the table, he can’t know you’re here.” And she shoves Villanelle downwards, shutting away any protest she would muster.

“Of course come in,” Hélène murmurs, unable to hide her annoyance. Villanelle shifts below the table, resting on her haunches, nursing a slight ache from hitting its edge.

“Did you have a guest?,” Paul asks while striding in, he gestures towards the open bottle and two glasses.

“I was anticipating your visit, Paul,” Hélène responds sarcastically, earning a quiet laugh from Villanelle beneath. The man and his pernicious ego could earn him a hit. She would gladly approve such a thing immediately, even accomplish it herself.

“I’m here to discuss what happened in Monaco. It caused such a ruckus,” Paul continues, clearly not picking up on the sarcasm. He takes a seat on the other end of the table, gestures towards the glass again. Hélène slides it over to him, rather forcefully, hoping it would stain the ill fitting suit but the man catches it far too easily. She slumps back in her chair, the wood creaking again suddenly being the only noise in the room. Paul clears his throat before speaking, “The target remains alive, yes, but who fired the shot?”

Hélène knows it’s a trick question, a viable test of the event. “A MI6 sniper backstage but my operative took care of her,” she takes a large swig of wine, Villanelle could hear her gulp not out of fright but annoyance. She’s kneeling at her boss’ feet, boredom futile, her fingers casually running a streaky path along Hélène’s legs, touch muted by sheer stockings. The woman’s legs shift as Villanelle begins to push the hem of her pencil skirt up just enough to see where the stockings end.

“Ah yes the reckless operative? The one who worked for MI6 beforehand?” Paul sneers.

“She only needs a __firm__ hand,” Hélène denounces, her hand immediately gripping the back of Villanelle’s head, only to push her forward, making her intent clear. Villanelle smirks against Hélène’s thigh, bites her there while her fingers toy with the strap of her garter belt. She snaps it and Hélène gasps.

“Goodness! Are you alright?” Paul asks in confusion, nearly standing out of his chair.

Hélène tugs Villanelle’s hair much harder, in reprimanding, who stifled a moan. “I’m a little flushed with all the wine, _ _monsieur__ ,” Hélène quickly says. Villanelle’s hands raise her skirt higher in permission and Hélène lifts her hips slightly until the silky material bunches under her upper thighs. She nudges the woman’s legs apart just enough to see dark curls and her desire.

“Well then,” Paul huffs, “the target wasn’t too keen on all the disruption.” He crosses his arms and looks at Hélène pointedly. It took a great Herculean effort to not roll her eyes let alone keep the moan threatening to break out as she felt Villanelle’s tongue take a languid stroke on her labia, purposely avoiding her clit. She wasn’t in the mood for copious teasing, pushes the other woman’s face deeply against her. Villanelle laps at her folds, tongue teasing around her entrance. Hélène’s hips involuntarily buck, chasing pleasure, her chair’s creaking nearly giving herself away.

“But are they dead?”, she bemuses and the look of disbelief across Paul’s face was not nearly as satisfying as the woman below bringing her to the edge of an orgasm.

“The Twelve are planning to initiate a hit on that MI6 operative you know, in fact I highly encouraged it,” he states, “haven’t received a name but we’re close!”

Hélène feels Villanelle’s movements stop abruptly. They both know who the agent is and Hélène reaches a hand down to rest on Villanelle’s shoulder in comfort. As soon as she does, her tongue finally enters her. Hélène gasps again, her hips subtly rolling. “Might I remind you that our accountant died on your territory, Paul,” her voice laced with venom, “you failed the bargain-“

“But that is uncalled for-“, Paul interrupts only for Hélène to do so in tandem.

“I should have my so-called reckless agent strangle the measly life out of you, thinking that you're above us. Get out of my sight,” Hélène concludes.

“Fine, I’ll take my leave,” he stutters, getting out of his chair.

 _ _“Oh god yes!”,__ Hélène moans unabashedly now. 

Paul quickly gives her a look of exasperation before exiting. 

Once the door slams shut, Hélène scoots her chair back, tugging Villanelle along with her, granting her more space. Villanelle swirls her tongue, deeper, feeling the woman’s inner walls clench around it. Hélène could hear just how wet she is with every stroke. She throws her legs over Villanelle’s shoulders, Valentino stilettos digging deliciously into the blonde’s back.

Villanelle couldn’t help but also moan at the sensation, a reminder that her own need is being neglected. She works her tongue faster now, Hélène’s hips bucking against her face sloppily, wetness dripping down her chin onto the floor. When Hélène comes against her face, she moans quietly before suddenly realizing she’s on the brink of another orgasm and comes again. 

__“Villanelle,”__ she pleads, “no more.” 

She tugs the loose blonde hair and Villanelle quickly laps at a string of come, catching it before it falls onto Hélène’s pristine stilettos. She makes a mental note to steal them later. Villanelle sits back slightly, her back resting on a table leg. 

They were both breathing heavily, Hélène looks at Villanelle, “What a mess I made out of your face,” she teases, voice low, leans towards the blonde. Her fingers toy with the lapel of Villanelle’s blazer and pushes it to the side, revealing her breasts. She rolls an achingly hard nipple between her fingers and Villanelle moans obnoxiously, clearly fed up with being quiet. 

She quickly shoves her own hand down into her trousers, past soaking lace as Hélène continues to play with her. Hélène watches the material strain against the vigorous movements, it is audible and her own arousal reawakens. Seeing Villanelle desperate for release goads her on, her fingers moving up to the blonde’s mouth who gladly takes them in and begins to suck. Villanelle moans around them as she enters herself, riding until her climax hits. She bites down hard on Hélène’s fingers as she comes. Villanelle slumps against the woman, who removes her fingers delicately from her mouth.

Once Villanelle’s breathing returns to normalcy, Hélène asks, “Do I taste better than her?”

Villanelle smirks, removing her hand from her trousers, it’s glistening with wetness. She pats Hélène’s cheek, leaving a dowsing smear there.

 _ _“Never,”__ she breathes out.

***

Eve sits on the edge of the bathtub, balancing ice packs, the only sense of emollient on her bruised knees. She sought out the bathroom as her sanctuary from Elena and Kenny who were fussing over her. There was an immense need to be left alone, Villanelle was the last person she expected to see, not after the way she left. It never came with a warning, not that the universe could ever prepare her. She sighs deeply then groans as she stands up, making her way over to the sink. Her reflection is tiresome, half hidden by her curls and she breathes onto the mirror, feeling very much like the condensation, only this time Villanelle is running her fingers through it, __through her.__

A loud knock on the door startles her and Elena calls out, “Eve? Please talk to us, we’re worried about you. We know Villanelle was there,” she says softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Eve quickly deters and is relieved that Elena doesn’t decide to push further.

“I got croissants here,” Elena shakes the bag. 

Eve’s stomach grumbles at the mention of food, she’s barely eaten since Monaco. She opens the door and peaks her head from the edge. “You got one with almonds on top?”

Elena eagerly nods and before Eve steps out, her phone vibrates. It is an unknown number, assuming MI6 is calling, she hastily picks up, only for her eyes to grow wide in shock at the familiar Russian lilt filtering through.

 _ _“Eve, can we meet?”__ , Villanelle asks, almost sounding hesitant.

She drops her phone and meets Elena’s eyes in surprise. 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with writing this chapter, it's a filler for sure and I got tired of looking at it.   
> Hopefully the next one makes up for this, thank you for reading!

“ Oh my god, it’s actually her!,” Elena exclaims, pointing at Eve’s phone, the dull gray color is a stark contrast against white bathroom tile. 

“How the hell did she get this number?!,” Eve fumbles to pick it up and is met with Villanelle humming on the other end of the line. 

“ _You know I can hear you,”_ Villanelle sing songs. 

A sudden flurry of scrubbing noises fill the room and Eve looks at her phone, perplexed. Elena gasps as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Is she brushing her teeth? Do you think she’s murdered someone with a toothbrush, Eve?!”, she asks, mouth agape and her hand crinkles the paper bag filled with buttery delicacies that Eve wants to stuff her mouth with to avoid the high level of embarrassment flushing. 

_“What a good idea, I haven’t yet_ ,” Villanelle chimes in. She was removing the taste of Hélène that lingered in her senses, but the craving for another taste outweighs all her efforts. She tosses the brush over her shoulder into the bathtub then spits in the sink. 

“What do you want, Oksana?,” Eve asks her again like she did in Monaco, there was never a prompt answer from the assassin but deep down Eve hopes it’s her that she wants. 

_“You’re the only one who can get away with calling me that,”_ Villanelle sighs and it almost sounds dreamy to Eve’s thoughts, “ _I hope your pin isn’t still 1234, that’s very unbecoming for a MI6 agent,”_ she continues, a teasing jab that obstructs the near tender moment. 

“I could’ve gone my whole life not knowing that,” Kenny joins in on the conversation then removes his headset, grumbling under his breath. Elena shrugs and steps out into their comm room, taking the food with her which reminds Eve of her growling empty stomach. 

_“Eve, meet me in Amsterdam_ , _I’ll explain everything there,”_ Villanelle says, startling her back into reality. 

“What makes you think I’ll meet you there?!,” Eve responds, failing to mask the anger she holds over her. 

_“Because you will,”_ Villanelle remarks as if it were the most obvious fact and Eve refuses to admit that she is right. 

————

Eve took the earliest train to Amsterdam with Elena and Kenny doubtfully in her ear, attempting to coax her out of meeting with Villanelle. They were certain it was a trap and Eve was quick to believe them, but the importance of keeping your enemies intimately closer held down all their protests. In every mission, it was always her who persisted even when the odds placed her own life on a thread, it helped when Villanelle was beside her, the woman brought out a fearlessness Eve never knew she possessed. With her gone, it left a cascading shadow of emptiness that refuses to be filled, not even with her own amorous feelings. 

The Twelve are a constant threat, Villanelle being the only lead she has on them, the target from Monaco becoming a nuance. The mystery woman she had seen holding hands with Villanelle still puzzled her. Kenny and Elena couldn’t find any information on who the mystery woman is deep within MI6.

Eve shivers against the coldness while sitting on a bench,

dragging her ill sized trench coat tighter across her chest, she gets a mouthful of wool from the scarf around her neck when a forceful breeze hits. She makes out a figure walking towards her and immediately recognizes Villanelle. The woman was wearing what hardly anyone would consider a dress, with sheer mesh and silk panels alternating in a mimicked wavy pattern leaving much of nothing to the imagination and stilettos. When she sits on the opposite side of the bench, near the trash can, Eve shivers again but not because of the cold. 

Villanelle has an ice cream cone in her hand, vanilla, Eve guesses funnily enough. They don’t look at each other nor speak for minutes at a time before Villanelle decides to break the silence by asking, “ How’s Niko doing?” and that garners Eve to look at her, bewildered. 

“He left, which I’m sure you’re thrilled to hear,” Eve denounces. She watches her take an urgent lick at melting ice cream, a tendril slipping along the backside of her hand. Eve observes it fall onto the grass regretfully wishing she licked it herself. She shakes off that thought, needs to focus on her anger. 

“I was married once,” Villanelle shrugs, continuing to devour the dessert in her hand. It takes Eve a moment to realize what she said, finds herself distracted yet again by all the licking. 

“I pity the poor woman who got stuck with you,” Eve says, now her beanie was starting to slip off her head as if the wind could sense her digression. How is Villanelle not freezing? She sighs loudly and notices the woman was looking at her. 

“She tried to kill me,” Villanelle states, tossing the rest of the cone into the trash. 

“Who isn’t trying to kill you?!” Eve bites back, she stands up to face Villanelle, immediately regretting it. Their faces were close, the proximity making Eve flush, she didn’t catch when Villanelle closed the distance. 

“Not you,” Villanelle says softly, her breath smelling faintly of cream and sugar. She steps closer to Eve, her fingers clutching the wrinkled silk at her hip as if she’s itching to touch her. 

“Not yet!”, Eve yells, frustration catching up to her. She pulls out a knife from a pocket and presses the tip against Villanelle, exactly where she’s harmed her before. Villanelle gasps but as Eve causally dismisses that the woman is quick, her nimble fingers wrap around Eve’s wrist. 

“This again? Can you be more creative?”, Villanelle teases into Eve’s ear. 

Eve knows she could snap her wrist in half with the amount of strength she possesses, every lustful entanglement pushing to the forefront of her mind that had displayed it. Villanelle relaxes her grip on her wrist and backs away slowly. “Follow me, I will explain everything.” 

Eve numbly listens, tucking away the knife and sees a tear in the mesh of Villanelle’s dress, the scar she gave her in the past is peeking through, newly bloody from her transgression. 

—————

They arrive at the entrance of a bakery, leaving Eve more perplexed as Villanelle swings open the door rather enthusiastically. The displays were empty much like the rest of the place, not a single patron sitting among the red linoleum seats. A stout woman wearing a velour tracksuit dusted in flour stands behind the counter, rolling out dough then proceeds to toss it up in the air like a performance to an imaginary audience. Villanelle waits until the woman catches the dough before screaming, “Baba Yaga!!!!!”, and it startles her enough to release a slew of what Eve can only assume is Russian curses.

She ends up tossing the dough in fright and gravity decides not to take effect, keeping it sticking to the ceiling. The woman turns around abruptly, ready to yell back at Villanelle but upon glancing at Eve, she retracts, eyeing her from head to toe. 

“Villanelle, already?”, the woman asks, confusion playing across her features. Eve suddenly remembers what Villanelle said about being married and she’s quick to shut down the strange woman’s assumptions. 

“Oh god absolutely not, no definitely no!,” Eve admonishes, she shakes her head. 

“Wow Eve, rude!”, Villanelle tuts. She takes a seat by the counter, elbows propping up on it, “Dasha, why are you making pizza? This is a bakery!” 

Eve is then told briskly about how Villanelle rented this space as a base of operations in the guise of a bakery. Dasha longed for a pizzeria and somehow that was far too obvious according to Villanelle, whose money was the only thing keeping this place from shutting down despite the lack of customers. Dasha was aiding her with information on the whereabouts of other members of The Twelve. She was a skilled hacker much like Kenny. The anger Eve was feeling earlier bubbles to the surface, Villanelle left only to secretly find a way to take down The Twelve was her conclusion. She pulls the knife out again, effectively shutting both the women up, but not without Villanelle smirking. 

“You’re telling me that you left as some part of a bigger plan that you know I could’ve been involved in?!”, Eve snarls. 

“Tell her to put the knife down, it is making me nervous,” Dasha jabs her elbow into Villanelle. 

“Eve, I had to, The Twelve know about my family. They have the information I need! You know I’ve been looking for them everywhere,” Villanelle pleads, her voice has gone soft, all traces of arrogance gone. 

“We could work together to find them. You didn’t have to do it alone and join the enemy,” Eve whispers, she places the knife on the counter, “I need a moment.” 

As soon as Eve takes a seat across the other side of the bakery, Dasha crinkles her nose at the display. 

“That one is still in love with you,” she concludes,” Stop making decisions with your crotch, Villanelle, I refuse to help with whatever mess you made.” 

“My crotch has made some very good decisions,” Villanelle jokes, reaching for the knife, it’s hilt is smooth and warm from Eve’s hand. She wasn’t completely ready to tell Eve the full truth, not without finding a way to get rid of Bradwell, who may have already placed the hit on Eve. She asked Dasha to track his movements for the past two weeks. His next location will be at a church not far from here. 

“How are you planning to kill Bradwell without them finding a way back to you?” Dasha huffs, arms crossing over her chest. 

“Who are we killing?” Eve interrupts, causing Villanelle to jump in surprise,” You don’t get to leave me out of this.” 

“I overheard that someone wanted to place a hit on you, Eve,” Villanelle flushes, remembering exactly how she received that information. 

“Bradwell, that name sounds familiar, I was assigned to take out an accountant of his,” Eve says, “I take it your bosses aren’t too happy about that.” She shrugs, it was inevitable that they would try to extract revenge. It was a rather difficult kill, the family card used against her had always caused hesitation in Eve. Villanelle taught her it was nothing but a tactic to help a target escape, you had to detach yourself from all morals and the emotions that lie within it. Eve still struggles with detachment, won’t ever give Villanelle that satisfaction again. 

“He’s going to be at a church next,” Villanelle informs her, “Let’s get ready!” 

She hops off the counter, Dasha grumbles behind her. 

“You’re joking right?”, Eve’s tone sounds incredulous. 

“Do I ever joke?,” Villanelle teases,” the nun outfit will be cute. Don’t expect less from me.” 

Dasha throws the outfit at Eve, striking her in the head with a laugh that could only be described as manic, the dough that clung to the ceiling gives into gravity and falls on her head. 


	4. blasphemy on your tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I wrote a longer chapter to hopefully make up for the lack of updating.  
> A heads up for character death set up in previous chapter as well as sexual content and sort of crude language?  
> Thank you for reading and sticking around with me, I truly appreciate it. :)

Eve reluctantly helps get rid of the remaining dough from Dasha’s head. It clung to her crown braided hair and Eve tugs a little too hard to remove it, plucking a few strands out. She tunes out Dasha and Villanelle’s childish banter which always consists of insults and vulgarity. Kenny and Elena knew she would be staying in Amsterdam for a while longer but what she neglected to tell them after going off the grid was the planned assassination that could possibly result in ending up in her own grave. It's an errant risk she brought onto herself, only to shove whatever she was trying to prove to Villanelle away. Villanelle had a habit of shielding her from the worst in secrecy and Eve was trite from not being seen as more than capable in ending whoever got in her way. 

Eve decides to interrupt them before her mind leaks out of her ears in exhaustion if their arguments would continue for a second longer, “How do you know he’s going to be in a church?” 

“Eve, it is _Sunday_ ,” Villanelle remarks as a matter of fact and it takes Eve all her strength to not roll her eyes. 

Dasha yelps at the sudden harsh pull on her hair, Eve would have her bald before they even headed out. Dasha ducks away before Eve could yank at her again, bumping into Villanelle as she wears the finishing touch to the nun disguise. Sensing her agitation, Villanelle takes a few steps back until she’s leaning against the partial dusty counter. Eve appraises her for just a fraction of time, nearly cursing under her breath over how Villanelle can manage to make the frumpiest of outfits look as though she walked off a runway. She catches her gaze and Eve hastily turns away, attempting to shove the rest of her curly mane into the coif. 

“We have been tracking him for weeks, he is the most irritating, self indulgent little man,” Dasha sneers, shoving her hands in her pockets, “The only place he frequently visits is church, just in time for confession.” 

Villanelle snorts like the consequences of ending Bradwell was a mere slap on the wrist. Eve can’t decide whether to throttle her or be impressed by the nonchalant attitude. Even after all these years, Villanelle’s mannerisms haven’t changed and much to Eve’s dismay, it manages to cause a deep nostalgic ache in her chest. While she is pondering Dasha’s information, more like selectively hearing it, Villanelle strides into her space, fingers reaching out to tuck a stray curl into the wimple of her headdress. The touch lingers along her cheekbone, Eve lets out a shaky breath. 

“You do realize that after all this, we go back to trying to kill each other,” Eve admonishes. She doesn’t move an inch beneath Villanelle’s touch, her fingers haven’t shifted. 

“Of course,” Villanelle muses but Eve can sense the disappointment wringing its way in her gaze. 

———

Once they arrived at the church, Dasha’s voice crackles in their ear pieces, “Bradwell must be nearby, the mass is over, perhaps tone down the eagerness until the crowd dissipates,” and Eve knows that was more likely aimed at Villanelle, who taps her feet across the laminate flooring, an intricate mosaic. A group of nuns walk pass and Villanelle waggles her eyebrows at them. Eve scoffs at her display before noticing a tuft of white hair belonging to a short man in a woolly suit, his pacing suspiciously quick. Eve tugs at Villanelle’s sleeve to alert her of his presence. 

“Dasha, he is here,” Villanelle says and she motions Eve to follow. The hall that Bradwell leads them to is lined with confession booths and arched windows filled with stained glass imagery. The colors reflect against Villanelle’s face as she turns to Eve. They spot Bradwell entering one of the booths and Villanelle abruptly stops. 

“Hide in here, in case he runs off,” Villanelle whispers, gesturing to another booth. She precedes to head towards him but Eve grips her arm. 

“No you can’t just sideline me!”, Eve responds, frustration wracking through her, “We’re in this mess because he wants me dead.” 

“If they know it was you, I won’t be able to save you, Eve,” Villanelle chides her softly, she’s never heard her sound so defeated. Eve lets go of her arm and she wants to ask what she means by saving however Villanelle enters the booth like her words were a colossal distraction. 

———

When Villanelle takes a seat on the wooden bench, it’s hard and makes her ass colder than she would like to admit. The reek of incense burns her nose and she can make out Bradwell’s form through the lattice partition. She hears him sigh and kneel on the stool. Eve’s knife from earlier is nestled beneath her palm, she feels a phantom ache in her gut from it. 

“Father? Are you well?”, he asks penitent, “I’m ready to make my confession.” He adjusts his glasses, lowers them on the bridge of his nose, another mark of pretentious ardor. Villanelle couldn’t wait to smash them. 

“He isn’t here, my child,” Villanelle stifles a laugh, she picks up a Dutch accent, leaning closer to the partition to see him looking perplexed, “I’m filling in.” 

The bench Bradwell is kneeling on squeaks under his movements and his face is level with hers now, but Villanelle can never resist the urge to mess with her targets. 

“Oh? Um well this must be new, is the church allowing nuns to lead confession now?”, he asks briskly while he attempts to get a better view of Villanelle. 

“The 21st century and all that,” Villanelle tuts, again a laugh threatens to spill out. She backs away enough sensing the man’s suspicion, she can’t dawdle any longer before her cover is blown. 

Bradwell clears his throat, sounding unimpressed. “Well I’ll begin then, it has been a week since my last confession. I may have upset quite a few number of people in my line of work plus-“ 

Villanelle cuts him off, “I have a confession to make as well for I am having impure thoughts about the man beside me.” 

“Oh my Sister, I’m flattered but I don’t swing that way!”, Bradwell exclaims, and Villanelle lets out a fretful sigh.

Her impatience that Dasha continues to nag on about consumes the goal of secrecy. She slams Eve’s knife into the latticed slot, the blade too thick to even reach Bradwell. He yelps in surprise and ducks out of the confession booth, flinging something against Villanelle’s face. The impact is hard enough to stall him for a few mere seconds, “You hit me with a bible?!”, Villanelle shrieks, the faux Dutch accent drops. 

She can already feel a bruise developing along her cheekbone as she chases after him, pulling her robes up to run better. Hélène’s stilettos were on her feet, she’s grown accustomed to wearing such heights on missions, they never halted her agility. Bradwell was surprisingly quick on his feet, the nickname weasel certainly suits him but she was not ready to give him credit just yet. She sees a confession booth open suddenly and Bradwell’s movements stop. He shifts backward, blood gleaming under the colored light. His hand is wrapped around Eve’s, the blade making itself known to Villanelle. Eve pushes it deeper into him, exactly as hers once was and Villanelle believes Eve has a penchant for that particular spot. She feels that ache again and brushes her fingers along it. Bradwell’s body stumbles to the ground and goes slack. 

The pool of blood is reaching their feet now and Eve drops the knife in a state of consternation. She looks up at Villanelle, hoping to find comfort but all she gets is remorse. Villanelle warned her not to take care of it herself despite achieving the efficacious goal. Eve calls her name out with a drought, heart thundering against her chest. And Villanelle fills it with a kiss that nearly knocks her back into the wall. She returns it eagerly, shoving her tongue into Villanelle’s mouth, the murder forgotten for a fraction of time before Eve pushes Villanelle away who stares at her like a conjured ghost. She forces the distance between them and Villanelle respects it, unable to hide the hurt in her eyes. 

“Eve....”, Villanelle says with a familiar longing ache, the pipe organs drown out anything else she has to say and Eve takes that as an opportunity to run. Villanelle doesn’t follow her. 

——

Villanelle enters her downtown flat, hands shaking as she locks the door behind her. Bradwell is dead, Eve is safe so she thinks but their kiss dusts over and over again across her lips. Villanelle feels guilty, it was her words that pushed Eve into ending him, maybe they were only a guise of protection. She asked Dasha to find a way to rid of their tracks and if the murder was to fall on anyone, that it would be her. She wasn’t surprised when Eve bolted out almost immediately, the shock overwhelming but the painful past still lingers, a conflict of desire. She wishes Eve was still with her, the last thing she wanted was to be alone. Villanelle reaches to remove the veil from the nun disguise then the robes were next but an urgent voice coming from the far side of the room stops her. 

“Leave the rest of it on, Villanelle,” Hélène says, languorous like she had been stuck in one spot for eternity. She is lounging on the velvet chaise, an arm slung on the back of it, legs crossed tightly. “Where were you? I’ve called,” she continues, eyes narrowing as she takes in the outfit. 

“I was at the Red-light District, you’d be surprised at how many people want to fuck nuns,” Villanelle lies beneath her boss’ gaze, she hopes the slight hesitation in her voice will not give it away. Hélène uncrosses her legs to reveal a leather harness secured tightly around her hips, over the grey pinstripe suit, the toy attached jutting out which was also grey. Villanelle wants to laugh because of course it matches but as Hélène slouches further off the edge of the chaise, invitingly so, she licks her lips. 

“Perhaps, I am one of those people,” Hélène teases and she beckons Villanelle with a perfectly manicured finger, a thick gold band around it. _Well that’s new._

Villanelle abruptly turns around to take in her surroundings, it feels distinctly off, the flat is shared with Hélène but the woman had never shown an interest in interior design. Villanelle is met by her disheveled reflection in a rather large ornate mirror, the kind only obtained through antique shows, its trim is gold and the mirror itself nearly touches the ceiling. _That is also new. Everything is gold._ She sees Hélène rise from the chaise through the mirror, her eyes never leaving hers. Villanelle gasps when the woman’s arms wrap around her waist, the strap pressing against her from behind as if it’s almost offended by the amount of clothing in the way. 

“ _Father_ , I have a confession to make,” Villanelle breaths out, shoving away her unsettling thoughts over the new decor, over what transpired with Eve. Hélène narrows her eyes but decides to play along. 

“And what is it, Sister?”, Hélène whispers along Villanelle’s ear, her lips ghosting over the shell of it. She moves a hand towards the wooden rosary dangling from Villanelle’s hip, tugging enough for her to turn around so that they are facing each other. She begins to unfurl it from the robe’s pocket, unaware of the length, a sudden idea fueled by continuous lust envelopes her. 

Hélène brings Villanelle’s wrists together in front of her, she would be alarmed over the lack of snarky remarks that usually come from the blonde but the quiet little gasp as she begins to wrap the rosary around stirs her on. Villanelle watches ardently, chewing her bottom lip, afraid to ruin the sacrilegious foreplay by speaking any further. Once Hélène finishes binding her wrists, she guides Villanelle by the rosary’s cross, pulling her forward until they reach the chaise. The wood digs into tender skin as she tests out the makeshift restraint, a smirk playing across her features. 

She attempts to straddle Hélène’s lap, the difficulty of bound wrists, robes, and stilettos hindering her progress. Hélène has other ideas however and stops her movements with a stern voice, “On your knees, Sister. Make your confession.” 

Villanelle stares at her with a hunger she recognizes immediately as lascivious. She struggles to drop to her knees and Hélène moves to aid her, causing the toy to bump against her cheek, the newly formed bruise there reminding her ardently of Eve. Villanelle wastes no time slotting a hand beneath the base of the toy to rub at her center over the pinstripe fabric. She eagerly takes the tip in her mouth and hears Hélène gasp above her as she sits back down. Hélène is warm beneath her palm and to her delight, realizes she wasn’t wearing anything underneath as Villanelle feels for her clit. It grants her another gasp from above, hands immediately seeking perch through blonde hair. 

She drags her tongue along the length of it, bites at the tip, her gaze never leaves Hélène who moans bashfully. She pulls Villanelle up and forces her to turn around so that her back is resting against Hélène’s front, the blonde’s head nestles into the crux of her neck and shoulder. Hélène lifts the hem of the robes up while Villanelle watches in the mirror as her hips and thighs become visible to the warm air. Hélène runs her free hand along Villanelle’s folds, her other wraps around her waist to keep the garment up. Villanelle chews on her lower lip as Hélène fingers skirt across wet sensitive flesh through the noire lace. It’s soaked completely and Hélène gives her an appreciative kiss on her neck and the lace squelches to the side by her questing fingers, reluctantly clinging away from Villanelle. Hélène exposes her to the mirror, their imaginary audience, finally touches the soft, even wetter by each pass, of her desire. 

Villanelle whines loudly, her clit is throbbing and she tries to rub herself on Hélène’s fingers. Hélène slaps her inner thigh in admonishment, clicking her tongue at the eager display. Villanelle feels the woman’s hips shift beneath her, the length of the toy now covering her slit entirely, just resting. Villanelle wants to scream and beg, how unlike her but Hélène saves her desperation by asking, _“Are you ready for your penance?”_

“ _Yes, fuck me already_ ,” Villanelle moans, and Hélène teases her entrance with the tip. Her thrusts begin shallow, the toy is already slick with Villanelle and she enters her with no resistance. Villanelle meets her every thrust with bereft intent, hips undulating as best as she could from the awkward angle. Hélène rearranges her so that Villanelle is straddling her hips to ride her better. They never kissed directly on the mouth before, one of Hélène’s rules. Villanelle at a peak of desperation always tries to but is met with the blunt edge of her jawline. The shock of Hélène’s lips brushing against hers then roughly meeting them, turns Villanelle ravenous. She bites eagerly at the woman’s lower lip, drawing a faint bloody taste to her mouth. Hélène pulls back, unamused by her antics. She smacks Villanelle’s ass, the strength of it hoists her off the strap. Villanelle whimpers over the emptiness, she was so close. Hélène tugs the rosary binding her wrists, fingers clutching its cross painfully enough it could splinter. 

_“No biting,_ ” Hélène chides, “My appearance must stay intact.” She runs a finger over her now swollen lip, it draws away with blood. Villanelle just nods frantically, wanting her boss to go back to fucking her. Hélène’s hips shift beneath her again, strap resting in the crux of Villanelle’s inner thigh. Her nun robes cover the movement but it never hinders how she clenches to nothingness. 

_“Please,”_ she’s begging now, the ache for satisfaction unbearable. Hélène grants mercy, filling her again by lifting the robes up to guide it with her free hand, all the way to harness’ hilt, burying. They unabashedly moan in unison, filling the room as she continues to thrust into Villanelle. 

She’s dripping all over, leaving wet spots on Hélène’s not so immaculate suit now. Villanelle’s bound wrists dig into her chest as she attempts to grip one of her breasts and fails, her hips bouncing in tandem to meet hers. She’s growing wetter and wetter by the millisecond, her clit throbs maddeningly. Villanelle awkwardly hunches to try to reach her clit with the back of her elbow. Hélène is quick to catch on and her fingers move to stroke it, letting the robes fall once again. The combined thrusting and fingers on her clit finally push Villanelle to her climax, she cries out as another wracks through her, hardly recovering from the first as Hélène doesn’t cease her movements until Villanelle silently pleads for her to stop. Hélène brushes her clit once more, sending a little aftershock then moves her hand away. She’s still buried in Villanelle and wraps her arms around the blonde while she rests, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“Villanelle,” Hélène coos, “freshen up then meet me in the bedroom,” her own need throbs persistently. Villanelle’s breathing feels somewhat normal and she helps her off her lap. Villanelle shudders as the toy slips out and Hélène gives her a quiet apology. 

“Wait,” Hélène stops her,” are those my stilettos?” 

Villanelle shrugs, a smirk playing across her lips and Hélène shakes her head. She makes her way over to the bathroom and chucks the outfit off. She sits on the floor and props herself on the edge of a strawberry pink clawfoot tub and suddenly that uneasiness she felt earlier bubbles to the surface. _More new everything_

Her thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the front door and the uneasiness turns into anxiety. She crawls over to peer through the crack of the bathroom door, it obstructs her view of the woman’s face who entered. She has never seen Hélène look so fearful as the woman steps closer and wraps her fingers around Hélène’s strap. 

“Looks like you were having fun,” the woman’s tone is seething as she takes in Hélène’s dishevelled appearance ,” Where is she? Who have you been fucking while I was away?” Her fingers retract away from the strap, Villanelle coating the tips of her fingers enough that they gleamed under the lighting. 

“I didn’t expect you to be here for another week,” Hélène deadpans, she tries to get up but the woman grips her shoulders. Villanelle wants to know who could possibly make Hélène nervous enough to stay put. The woman brings her fingers towards Hélène’s mouth which she eagerly takes to suck them clean. Her fingers exit with a wet pop.

“I wanted to surprise you for our first anniversary, _amor_ ,” and the woman stops just short of the bathroom door Villanelle is hiding behind. Her face finally comes into view and it takes everything for Villanelle not to cry as she clasps a hand over her mouth. _It’s Maria._


End file.
